Hail, Poesie!
by QWERTYfaced
Summary: Neal spouts doggerel, Mozzie quotes poets, Peter gets annoyed, El bakes cookies, and Hughes has the answer. This is pure, unadulterated, unapologetic (and indifferently proofread) crack! [Crack/humor. Oneshot.]


**Title:** Hail, Poesie!  
**Author:** QWERTYfaced  
**Fandom:** White Collar  
**Wordcount:** ~2100  
**Rating:** PG  
**Characters:** Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Mozzie  
**Genre:** Gen, humor, crack!fic  
**Notes:** Written in response to the winterstar95's prompt at the LJ "whitecollarfic" community's Crackfic Monopoly! fest. The prompt was: "Neal gets hit by a spell and can only speak in verse (either singing or some type of poetry). Peter gets annoyed, Mozzie loves it and gets into it. Elizabeth feeds him cookies and only Hughes knows the cure - and that is up to the author!"  
**Summary:** Neal spouts doggerel, Mozzie quotes poets, Peter gets annoyed, El bakes cookies, and Hughes has the answer. This is pure, unadulterated, unapologetic (and indifferently proofread) crack!  
**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fanfiction. All characters and settings belong to their respective copyright holders, not me. Which is why I don't have a house made entirely out of bookcases yet.

* * *

It had been a long, frustrating, and above all, _fragrant _night in the van.

When Neal finally got home, well past midnight, all he wanted to do was collapse into bed. After a shower, that is. He was convinced that the distinctive aroma of deviled ham clung to his skin like some horrifying cologne. And in retrospect, his own dinner had been somewhat ill-judged. Diana had not been complimentary about the salmon.

In moments of stress, you could always discern her expensive education. She'd become positively _lyrical_. At the point when Peter finally let them all go, the atmosphere—or miasma, as Diana put it—was definitely rather strained.

After all that, the folded paper on his kitchen table barely registered as a spot of yellow. Preoccupied with stripping off his clothes (which he was pretty sure would have to be burned), he decided to worry about it in the morning.

Unexpected origami, after all, was hardly a novelty.

* * *

The next morning, he was forced to revise that assessment. Flowers were par for the course, but this was the first time he'd ever gotten a voodoo doll. Alex had clearly been practicing. The angular little figure even had a tiny hat.

Nevertheless, the most striking elements were the antique silver hatpins impaling its head: one was at about mouth level on the featureless face, and the other was stuck right through the hat.

Neal regarded it with vague unease. Either it was all a rather disturbing joke, or else Alex was having some second thoughts about the U-boat treasure and whether or not they were actually even.

Glancing at his watch, he saw that Peter would be picking him up any minute. On his way downstairs, he resolved to put the whole strange episode out of his mind.

Peter gave him a perfunctory sort of nod as he slid into the passenger seat of the Taurus. "Morning, Neal."

More than ready to talk about normal things, Neal smiled and turned to return the greeting.

"Good morning, Peter. Say, how is El? / Is her business all right? Is she doing well?"

A moment's thoughtful silence followed this remark. Neal was busy reviewing it in his head. Peter was busy staring.

"She's fine," the agent said finally. "Is there a reason you sound like _Seussical the Musical_?"

Neal gave a mildly embarrassed shrug. "All right, so I rhymed. It was slightly surreal, / But I'm tired, okay? Let's not make a big deal," he said. Then he went wide-eyed.

"Neal, what the hell?" Peter demanded. "Are you doing this on purpose?"

"I'm really not, Peter. I don't know what to say, / No matter what, it just comes out that way!" Bewilderment and a touch of panic colored Neal's voice. He was normally good at maintaining poise, but this was emphatically not normal.

His expression, in fact, was so genuinely freaked-out that Peter was forced to believe him.

"Then have you suffered some kind of head trauma since last night?" he asked, since that was the only explanation that came to mind.

The same thing had apparently occurred to Neal, and he already had his hands up probing his scalp. He shook his head. "Head trauma? No, not that I can recall, / And there isn't a bump, so I didn't fall."

Peter drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then shook his own head and picked up the phone.

"This is Burke," he said after a moment. "I'll be in late today. I'm taking Caffrey to the hospital...he's had some kind of psychotic break."

* * *

Later that afternoon, Neal stood in the entryway of the Burke's house, pretending he couldn't overhear the low-voiced colloquy from the kitchen.

"The tests didn't find anything physically, but he still needs a psych eval and he can't be left alone," Peter was saying. "Look, El, I'm not sure how comfortable I am with this. If he gets violent..."

"_Violent?_ Honey, you must be joking. I hardly think Neal is going to go from poetry to attacking someone."

"Yes, but if he starts telling you he's the Pope, or even Frank Abagnale, you call me."

"We'll be just fine, Peter." El sounded both amused and determined.

She came out a moment later, bearing coffee and a plate of cookies. "Neal, sweetie, you must be worn out. Come sit down and have a cookie."

Neal looked at Peter, who'd followed his wife out of the kitchen. Peter shrugged, so the con stepped forward to accept the invitation. "Thank you, Elizabeth; you're always so kind, / But I know this is strange...are you _sure_ you don't mind?"

To her everlasting credit, Elizabeth only paused fractionally, her head cocking slightly to one side. Her blue eyes were filled with fascination, but she was as brisk and cheerful as ever. "Don't be silly, Neal, your company is always welcome."

In response, Neal cleared his throat and tried to summon up his usual insouciant smile. "Well, thanks again. Those cookies look great, / And I also just love the Site Corot plate."

"Yes, their designs are wonderful, aren't they?" She hesitated, but was unable to keep herself from asking. "So, er...how does this whole thing work?"

Neal's smile turned a little wry around the edges, but he seemed to have been expecting the question, because he had an answer all ready.

"I don't have to speak in iambic pentameter; / It just has to rhyme, that's the only parameter." He lifted one shoulder in a slight, rueful shrug. "Doggerel works just as well as fine verse. / If it were more specific, it could be much worse. / Limericks, for example? There's no way to duck it— / Only so many things rhyme with 'Nantucket.'"

Elizabeth burst out in a fit of the giggles.

Neal was waving away her subsequent apologies when the doorbell rang and Peter went to answer it. From the foyer, they could hear Mozzie declaiming:

"'The oppressor, / The brute and boisterous force of violent men, / Hardy and industrious to support / Tyrannic power ...'"

"Shut up and get inside." Peter's voice was exasperated. "You actually spent time preparing that just in case we met, didn't you?"

"It was too good an opportunity to miss, Suit. Also, I agree with Milton's general sentiment." Mozzie bustled in carrying a garment bag. He brightened when he saw El. "Ah! 'Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!'"

"Wait," Peter interjected, "she gets Shelley's 'To a Skylark,' and I get offensive Milton quotes?"

"I'm quite fond of Mrs. Suit," said Mozzie. "I look upon it as her misfortune and not her fault that she married a representative of The Man."

Feeling maligned, Peter threw his hands up in a passionate gesture. "Why are _you_ quoting poetry?"

"Well, obviously, solidarity. Besides, 'Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— / I took the one less traveled by.'"

"Well, _obviously._" Sarcasm laced Peter's words like acid.

Neal put his head in his hands, and Elizabeth decided to intervene.

"It's good to see you, Mozzie," she said, with a gracious smile. "Did you bring Neal's overnight bag?"

"Of course. Along with proof of just what ails him," said Mozzie, brandishing the figurine from Neal's table. "Alex cursed him!"

Silence. Neal kept his head down.

"Alex cursed him!" Mozzie said again. He gave the little yellow man another wave, just in case that would help.

Further silence. At this point, Neal had shut his eyes.

"'She casts a spell, oh, casts a spell!'" Mozzie tried.

"With voodoo origami," Peter said flatly.

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Suit, than are dreamt of in your short-sighted bureaucratic philosophy."

Peter's lips moved silently for several seconds while he weighed his responses. Eventually, he settled for, "I'm going to the office."

Elizabeth's mouth was twitching. "See you later, hon."

"As soon as I can, hon." He looked from Neal to Mozzie, then amended his statement. "It could take a while. Have fun with the Felonious Poets Society."

"There's nothing wrong with poetry," Mozzie put in. "'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined, / The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind ...'"

He had to shout the last words over the sound of the front door slamming.

In the wake of Peter's departure, it seemed to dawn on both Mozzie and Elizabeth that Neal was still clutching at his head. They both rushed to his assistance.

"You know, _mon frère_, verse is the language of the truly evolved, " Mozzie supplied. "There are lots of words we don't use nearly enough anymore. I mean, whatever happened to _gloaming_?"

The only answer was a groan.

Elizabeth patted Neal's shoulder comfortingly. "Have another cookie," she said.

* * *

The next morning, against both men's better judgment, Peter dragged Neal into the office. There was a new art forgery case; and as Jones had put it, even if Neal delivered his expertise "in singing telegrams," it would still be useful.

The greetings, however, were somewhat awkward.

"Caffrey, how are you? Still feeling...uh..." Jones searched desperately for a word other than _crazy_.

"'When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw,'" Neal replied.

"Right," said Jones. "Cool."

Diana nudged Peter. "I thought you said he was rhyming everything, Boss."

"No, _apparently_, he can also quote or get away with assonance," Peter said. "But we have an agreement. If he can manage it, he's supposed to nod, shake his head, or shrug. And he's not allowed to talk to anyone from outside the department."

"Well, he certainly can't go undercover like this," Diana agreed.

From dejection, Neal had moved on to sulking. He glared at Diana and said, "Trust me, this isn't my notion of fun! / On balance, I'd much rather meet with a gun."

"Don't tempt me," Peter muttered.

Looking wounded, Neal slunk off to his desk.

"You know," Diana said meditatively, "I bet Ogden Nash was a pain in the ass in the office."

"I bet you're right," said Peter. "Listen, do me a favor and don't spread this around too much, all right?"

Diana agreed, but of course, nothing was ever quite that simple. When the usual suspects finally met in the conference room, a truly remarkable number of agents had some kind of business that involved standing right outside. Even Hughes was sitting against the back wall.

For his part, Neal managed to get through a full twenty minutes without having to say a word. Eventually, however, there came a point when that just wouldn't cut it anymore.

He was in the middle of explaining just what features and tests would prove forgery—and coming up with some highly inventive rhymes—when he started to pick up the whispers between Peter and Hughes.

_"How do you know that'll work?"_ Peter asked.

_"I don't...but I can't take it anymore."_

Hughes moved casually to stand right behind Neal's chair. Neal resisted the urge to turn around, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Peter's boss had some large object gripped in one hand.

Nervously, the con artist concluded, "And so, Harvard Crew, keep your eyes on the prize. / Do your due diligence; we'll catch the bad gu—"

Everything went dark.

* * *

Much to his surprise, Neal woke up in his own bed with an alarm blaring on the nightstand. He slapped it off, then stumbled out to the kitchen table, where he found a folded yellow sticky note.

Mozzie's untidy scrawl met his gaze, mentioning some "borrowed" icewine.

Neal scrubbed at his face and headed for the shower.

Clean and somewhat more clearheaded, he was just inserting his cuff links when his cell phone rang. Oddly enough, it was Mozzie.

_"Hey, Neal, are we still on for Broadway tonight? I can get us good tickets for_ Pippin."

"No!" Neal took a deep breath and modulated his tone. "No, sorry, I won't be able to make it. Nothing turned up on that case last night, so I'll probably be working with Peter."

_"I'm disappointed in you,_ mon frère. _You're a dog on a leash these days."_

"Yeah, well. Hey, Moz...you haven't heard from Alex lately, have you?"

_"No, why?"_

"Oh, no reason. Listen, I've got to go. Peter will be here soon."

"À plus."

_"Bonne journeé."_ He hung up and let out a long breath before he finished dressing.

When Peter pulled up in front of the building, Neal was already waiting at the curb. He hopped into the car almost before it came to a full stop, ignoring the FBI agent's look of surprise.

"You're awfully cheerful for a man who's going to spend his night in the van," Peter observed.

Neal's expression contained nothing but infinite sincerity. The tone of his reply was almost reverent.

"Peter...I _love_ the van."


End file.
